


The Fire Crackles, The Fire Roars

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: The weather is bitter cold and the lights go out. By the fireside.





	The Fire Crackles, The Fire Roars

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote something similar earlier this year. But now taking out the smut. This is fluff.

'The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful,' John sings to himself, trudging up the stairs, the weight of his extra clothes now a burden. Gloves off, scarf free, he sees Sherlock with two mugs of hot cocoa in hand.

          "Come, John, join me. We're experiencing the coldest day in London history."

          "You've been inside all day! I'm the one freezing my ass off. Couldn't get a cab for trying and the tube was packed with people."

Off comes the parka, his knitted hat that Mrs. Hudson had made for him, and one of the two jumpers he was wearing.

Eyeing those horrid jumpers, Sherlock grunts and turns away.

          "At least the damn things keep me warm."

          "I suppose you haven't eaten anything, have you?" walking towards him, taking the mug in hand and lifting it in a thank you. 

          "Yes, I had the chicken noodle soup that Mrs. Hudson brought up yesterday, and there's still some for you."

          "I'll stick to the cocoa. I ate at the clinic before leaving."

My cold hands wrap around the cup bringing a welcome warmth to my stiff fingers.

          "Jeez, as we get older the cold is harder to take. I remember-"

          "I know John, sledding and making snowmen. More then I did as a child." His voice peevish.

I regret starting in. Sherlock's childhood was one of constant restraint. Upper-class restraint. Mine, on the other hand, was a sort of freedom. Get out of the house away from Dad's drunken beatings. Roaming the streets freely. Ah well!

* * *

I notice our chairs are facing the fireplace instead of facing each other. Even the flat can't keep out the cold. The old age of the rooms giving it a certain patina, but the leakage from the windows letting in the chilly wind is a reminder of its maturity.

Sitting in my chair feet stretched out towards the warmth, Sherlock brings a blanket to cover me. My surprise at his thoughtfulness shows.

          "Have to keep you warm, doctor. Who else would watch out for you?" slumping down in his armchair.

The quiet of the flat, the fire burning, warm cocoa in hand. Ah, this is home!

* * *

Both of us decide to put on PJs, sit by the fire with our laptops, more cocoa and enjoy the communion and heat from that sparkling blaze.

* * *

          "Hey, what's going on?" The lights flicker off, on and off for a final time.

          "I'm putting more logs on, my good doctor. It's going to get cold very quickly in here if the heat is off."

By midnight it's still dark and too cold to sleep in our bedrooms. Sherlock is out of the chair and brings his down comforter, pillows and extra blanket from his room.

          "Good thought," helping him move the chairs and spreading the blanket on the floor by the fireplace.

I find my blankets and pillows from my bedroom, shivering as I haul them down the steps to the floor of the sitting room.

          "I'll make more cocoa for us, and we can have the wafers still in the cupboard. "

Settled under blankets, the cushioning of the feather down quilts under our bodies, hot cocoa by us.

Taking me by the waist Sherlock rotates me around, my back to his front.

All is body heat and cozy now. My nose is cold, and I rub it, giggling.

          "Tol nose," sounding like a little child with a cold.

* * *

I'm half-asleep and suddenly, " uh, um you're out there," wriggling forward, trying to move away from the growth I encounter. I switch around, and now suddenly face to face, to close, too close to his lips.

          "Er, Sherlock."

          "John," his lips briefly touch mine. Inhaling heavily.

          "Sherlock," my lips descend on him, a touch, a brush, a taste.

          "John," a low mumble, tongue out, stroking, begs for more.

          "Sherlock," I grip his hair, tongue discovers tongue, shadows his movements.

Our minds blend, bodies entangle, ever tighter.

The Fire Crackles, The Fire Roars.

* * *

The night passes, we sleep in each other's arms.

* * *

Morning light from the window, still cold, the fire out. I volunteer to light the fire and Sherlock is going to try making breakfast.

With lots of, John how do I, and should I, we switch places. He stokes the fire, I make eggs, toast, and coffee. Our coats on, trembling with every move.

Touchs are new to us, a hand on a shoulder, lips grazing cheek, brushes of fingers. Breakfast is now finished, we bundle in tiers of clothing.

* * *

I have an idea! Moving chairs out of the way, we place the sofa close to the now glowing fire. Blankets surround us.

          "l have a confession to make about about last night, doctor."

          "No need my good detective."

          "No it's necessary. I love you, John Watson."

          "I need to confess, also. I love you.

The Fire Crackles, The Fire Roars.


End file.
